


Puis libre enfin

by howbadcanmyficsbe



Series: A Lonely Thief Is Sad To Feed [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Food Service, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chef Jean Valjean, Domestic, M/M, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe
Summary: Though an early riser by nature, Valjean has become something close to averse to the way sunlight nudges impatiently at his eyelids in the morning.Doubtless, today will be another busy day at The Lark.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Series: A Lonely Thief Is Sad To Feed [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079804
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Puis libre enfin

Though an early riser by nature, Valjean has become something close to averse to the way sunlight nudges impatiently at his eyelids in the morning. So much more often does he find himself shielding his gaze, burrowing into the hollow of Javert’s chest or a solid shoulder blade. Rather than watch the sun rise on an early run or start the coffee pot, he would sooner spend the morning nestled here, like a bear in its cave, reluctant to emerge into spring. It’s far too comforting a prospect to stay here, warm and safe against any cold the world outside has to offer. 

Today he woke with Javert’s wiry arm draped over his side, holding his bulk with unconscious protectiveness, as if he wants to keep Valjean from leaving. Valjean has spent what must have been the last half hour inching closer to listen to Javert’s steady heartbeat and his contented breaths. Most of his face is buried in a pillow, leaving only a fraction to allow him access to air. As it is, Valjean has no hope of returning to the lull of sleep, so he simply closes his eyes, appreciating the simple pleasure of feeling another body slotted against his own. 

The soft sound of Valjean’s alarm does nothing to rouse Javert. It’s been a years-long process of finding the right volume—loud enough to wake Valjean but quiet enough to keep Javert asleep. He reaches behind him, stretching awkwardly to grab his phone without disturbing Javert’s serene expression. Silently he scrolls through notifications until he lets the screen go black; he stretches and gently places Javert’s arm between them. Kissing Javert’s knuckles lightly, Valjean slips out from under the covers and pads across the wood floor to the bathroom. 

Doubtless, today will be another busy day at The Lark—not too busy, but they’ve certainly made a name for themselves, enough that Javert has had to hire two new staff for the front of house. It’s given Valjean a new kind of energy, seeing the city liven again after lockdown. So much so that the possibility of pursuing his cookbook seems closer and closer to reality. All the experimenting during quarantine may pay off, he thinks, making a mental note to call the publisher Éponine had been speaking with. 

His bathroom routine is automatic at this point, a dormant force woken back up as the restaurant slowly returns to normalcy. Toilet, toothbrush, shower—all done as quietly as he can while Javert sleeps on the other side of the wall. The one thing that’s truly changed is his size, a fact he notes in the mirror as he puts on his briefs. No one had said anything about his sudden however many pounds—though he did what he could to lose a few near the end of lockdown. He supposes the kitchen staff is hardly concerned with his size—and neither is he. At this point, he can confront his reflection with not only confidence, but love. He loves the way he looks, loves the person he sees in the mirror, loves even more the man who suddenly stands by his side. 

Valjean turns while Javert rubs his eyes sleepily, swaying almost as he stands at the vanity. Failing to suppress a yawn, he gives Valjean’s back a caress before giving his cheek a stubbled kiss and ambling towards the toilet. Closing his eyes as he sits down—nearly missing the bowl—Javert looks as if he might fall back asleep, his hair falling in pieces from his ponytail. His oversized sleep shirt (one of Valjean’s own t-shirts, he realizes) hangs off a lean shoulder, mimicking the way Javert seems to droop in place. It would be lying to say that seeing Javert like this didn’t stir some gratification in him, knowing he was the only one to see him at his most unwound.

Smiling to himself, Valjean leans down to return Javert’s kiss in full. 

“See you downstairs,” he says, tucking a stray hair behind Javert’s ear. 

“Mmph,” Javert mumbles, saying something unintelligible as Valjean closes the bathroom door behind him. 

As Valjean dresses in the walk-in closet, he can’t help but dwell on the almost laughable contrast in the two sides of the narrow room—Javert’s slender, long trousers compared to his decidedly larger work pants. Although, Valjean harbors a certain kind of satisfaction as he eyes the new pairs of jeans Javert had to purchase near the end of lockdown, knowing that the onslaught of his baking and test cooking had Javert so well-fed. Donning his work slacks and a dark t-shirt, he makes his way to the kitchen. 

Absentmindedly he starts the coffee pot—just for Javert, not for himself—and retrieves a protein shake from the fridge. And just as quickly, he’s lacing up his slip-resistant shoes and making his way down to unlock the back door to the restaurant. Rummaging through the staff closet, he downs the rest of the shake and pulls out his coat, putting it on, and tying up his lengthy hair as well as he can in his bandana. He sees Gavroche enter the back door, wave to him, and slip into the kitchen. 

Morning prep is a mindless comfort, listening to the slowly increasing bustling sounds of his staff coming in, the chopping of vegetables, the scrubbing of the grill, the clatter of dishes. Short, cheerful greetings, inquiries as to how days off went, joking comments on the length of Valjean’s curls threatening to escape into the food. 

It’s a half-hour before opening that Valjean hears distantly the telltale sound of clipped footsteps down the stairwell. Already he can hear Javert’s voice, precise and baritone, ringing its way back into the kitchen. The sounds grow closer until Javert is walking down the line, tablet in hand and back ramrod straight as he surveys the prep work. Dressed impeccably—white button-down and dark jeans with polished shoes—he makes a quick note on the tablet before sounding off. 

“Good morning everyone,” Javert says, punctuated and loud enough for the whole kitchen to hear. A chorus of “‘Morning sir!”s sound off as Javert closely inspects the cleanliness of the drop-off counter. 

“Let’s have a good day today,” he calls back, just as loud, with a tint of vindication. 

His eyes meander up from the metal counter to Valjean, interrupted while chopping a bundle of herbs fresh from the courtyard. Valjean takes the moment to scrutinize Javert just as much as he scrutinized his countertop. Taking his time as Javert watches him, Valjean’s gaze goes from his tightly bound hair to his pressed shirt, down his well-fitted pants, around to his wedding band, and finally back to his skeptical eyes. As much as he wants to tease Javert for how well he cleans up with a half-hour and a cup of coffee, he holds his tongue, settling instead on a wry smile. 

“What’s so funny?” Javert murmurs, not wholly unamused.

“Nothing,” Valjean says, face suddenly deadpanning before another smile bursts through. “You just look well-rested.”

Something in Javert’s eyes tells him that the man wants nothing more than to duck through the line window and grab him by the lapels, pull him into a snide kiss. But he brushes the look off his face in the same way he cleans a tabletop, meticulous but swift. As he nods curtly and walks to exit the kitchen, Valjean can spy Javert rolling his wedding band with his thumb before he disappears through the door.


End file.
